Heron Sea

Short Poems
of the
Chesapeake Bay

Tanka and Other Short Forms

by M. Kei

2007
Keibooks, Perryville, Maryland
Heron Sea, Short Poems of the Chesapeake Bay
Copyright 2007 by M. Kei
Cover photo courtesy of the US Geological Survey

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 Acknowledgments
This book includes both previously published and new poems. Grateful
acknowledgment is made to:

Modern English Tanka

Kokako (NZ)
Ribbons
Red Lights
Gusts (CAN)
Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society (UK)
Haiku Harvest
Nisqually Delta Review
Simply Haiku
Lynx, A Journal for Linking Poets
Chesapeake Bay Saijiki
Outsiders MyTown
Sketchbook
Haiku du Jour
Haiku Blossoms (India)
Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart
Landfall, Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka
Nota Bene Contest 2006
Tanka Splendor Award 2006

Special Thanks to the Skipjack Martha Lewis

and the Havre de Grace Maritime Museum

Additional Thanks to Denis M. Garrison for technical assistance and Sanford Goldstein
for his invaluable support
 Other Publications by M. Kei

Poetry

Slow Motion : The Log of a Chesapeake Bay Skipjack

Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka (editor-in-chief)
Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (editor)
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka (editor)

Fiction

Pirates of the Narrow Seas

Pirates of the Narrow Seas 2 : Men of Honor
Pirates of the Narrow Seas 3 : Iron Men

Read PoNS free online at: http://NarrowSeas.blogspot.com

 Contents
Introduction, 7

Chesapeake Country, 9
Skipjack One, 16
Love, 22
Skipjack Two, 29
Head of the Bay, 34
Threnody, 44

Biography, 54

Notes and Credits, 55

 Introduction

Heron Sea, Short Poems of the Chesapeake Bay, combines my love of short
form poetry with the Chesapeake Bay. The forms, principally tanka, are ultimately
Japanese in origin, but well-suited to the culture and environment of the Chesapeake.
Tanka, the ancestral form of Japanese poem, predates the better known haiku by
more than a thousand years. At a time when the bards of Europe were composing epics
of blood and violence like Beowulf, in Japan everyone from soldiers to emperors,
fishergirls to royal ladies, were writing tanka. More than four thousand of them were
anthologized in the Man’yoshu, or ‘Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves’ in the 8th
century AD. Tanka anthologies are still being published today, making tanka the world’s
oldest continuously anthologized genre of poetry.
Tanka is marked by lyricism and the melding of the human and natural
environments. Composed in Japanese in a pattern of five lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, it
spawned numerous variations. Never dictatorial, Japanese tanka vary from the pattern
at times. In English, due to the great differences in the languages, tanka are usually
much shorter and less regular in line length in order to capture the suppleness of the
original form. While all possible subjects are suitable for tanka, the natural and human
environments remain perennial favorites. Because of that, I have found tanka to be an
excellent vehicle for bearing witness to life and loss at the Head of the Bay.
My European ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the Chesapeake,
arriving at Jamestown in 1628 and spreading up the Eastern Shore, while my Native
ancestors have been here for thousands of years. They joined in what developed into a
unique American regional culture, distinguished by the intense interconnections of land
and water.
The Chesapeake itself is more than two hundred miles from the Susquehanna
River to the Virginia Capes, with more than eleven thousand miles of coast. The
intertwining of land, islands, inlets, and wetlands makes the Chesapeake Bay the
largest estuary in North America and a treasure trove of flora and fauna. Known as the
‘osprey garden,’ more than half of all North American ospreys live here, along with half
the blue herons of the East Coast, and the largest concentration of bald eagles in the
Lower 48. The Chesapeake is a winter haven for birds from as far away as Greenland
and Brazil. And that is to say nothing of the many smaller and less obvious species.
The Chesapeake is also one of the most threatened waterways in North America.
Given a flunking grade of only 27% in its last evaluation by the Chesapeake Bay
Foundation, this represents a noticeable improvement over the Bay’s nadir.
Unfortunately, while the prominent return of major species like bald eagles and rockfish
is important, it masks the ongoing loss of wetlands and the demise of the Chesapeake
Bay oyster population.
Losing oysters has had important cultural, environmental, and financial impacts.
First and foremost is the ecological loss: oysters are ‘filter feeders’ that naturally clean
the water. At the time Captain John Smith (of Pocahontas fame) explored the Bay, there
were so many oysters they filtered the entire volume of the Bay in three days. Smith

7
reported water crystal clear twenty feet straight down to a sandy bottom. People living
and playing on the Bay today assume that the brown murk with which they are so
familiar is natural and normal, but it isn’t.
Oystering was once the seventh largest industry in Maryland, and the loss of the
livelihoods of so many people has served as a drag on the economy, especially on the
Eastern Shore where watermen have only partially been able to make their living from
oyster farming, eel-fishing, tourism, and other activities. Few of them can afford to keep
up with the maintenance of a skipjack, bugeye, or draketail boat, to name just a few of
the indigenous baycraft. Old boats are abandoned in the marshes, and as they die, the
traditional skills and way of life they enabled die with them. Watermen, once responsible
for overfishing the oyster beds, are now among the most ardent environmentalists of the
Bay. In very few other occupations is the link between human action and environmental
loss so deeply felt.
Once a fleet of more than a thousand skipjacks harvested oysters on the bay,
now less than two dozen exist. One, the Martha Lewis, is the last sailboat in North
America to fish commercially under sail. Martha doesn’t make a living at it; she is owned
and operated by the Chesapeake Heritage Conservancy, a small, grassroots, nonprofit
organization with one and a half paid staff. The rest of us are volunteers who give our
time and money to preserve the last vestiges of the watermen’s traditional culture. The
last time I went out oystering with Martha, seven men dredged five bushels in six hours
of backbreaking labor. The bushels were worth $50 each.
During the warm months Martha takes passengers on cruises and students on
environmental classrooms, one of several baycraft that tries to support themselves in
this way. Working aboard the Martha Lewis in fair weather and foul, sunlight and
starlight, winter and summer, has written a large amount of the poetry in this book. From
the water it is possible to see numerous derelict structures, abandoned islands, and
wetlands being overrun by development, all largely invisible to those who whizz by on
Interstate 95.
Every time I cross the Hatem Bridge between Cecil and Harford Counties, I look
down, straining for a glimpse of a big wooden sailboat, her boom so long it trails over
her stern. Martha, with her mast the size of a telephone pole, is a giant among the
pleasure craft that call Havre de Grace home, but she is a fragile giant. Bellwether of
the Chesapeake, this one frail boat is my personal symbol for four hundred years of
history and the very uncertain future of the Chesapeake Bay.
I write poetry to fight against the loss of what I love, yet every poem of
celebration is also a threnody for a dying world. I hope that my poems will move the
reader in the way that no amount of history, ecology, economics, or facts can do.

M. Kei
Perryville, Maryland
Chesapeake Bay, USA
14 March 2007

8
Chesapeake Country

9
I write poetry
like the hills of Maryland,
slow, easy, green swells,
rolling from creek to vale,
with all the time in the world.

luminous green light

the dappled hill climbs away
from the town limits

May afternoon,
every piling
with its seagull

Ankle-aching acres
of wooded cliffs
between here and there,
but oh! the view
from Turkey Point!

on the river,
a wedding cake tugboat
pushes a sheet cake barge

most days
I am happy to forget
there is
anything beyond
these green hills

10
 the peacock of night
spreads his tail . . .
stars shimmer everywhere

under the stars,

even this little town
is Camelot

in a small museum
i stroke my hands over
Native stones,
weights for nets
empty of dreams

these widowed lands,

where once
my Native ancestors
dwelled
in freedom

11
 turning down
a side street in
an unfamiliar town,
I stumble across a garden
of childhood bluebells

so many things
taller than me,
hollyhocks and waterfalls

hiking through
the autumn woods,
my son and I
climb over the fallen fence
and into the world

the great blue heron

the blue painted ship
the blue silence

no wind tonight
a puddle of silver
in the bay’s darkness,
a full moon
off the port bow

12
cormorants
perched on ancient pilings,
you give new meaning
to the color of
darkness

white drifts
in the stubbled field
snow geese

I can’t see him

in all this haze,
but the reedy ‘arawk’
tells me the blue heron
is close by

rising from the bay

wings tipped with water
the hunting heron

ah, heron,
I wish I could eat
fish raw from the bay
I caught with
my own beak

13
slack water,
the tide neither rising
nor ebbing;
for a moment I wonder if
I too can walk on water

Let me
steep myself
in the briny breach
and be born
anew this day

this beach
charges me nothing
to walk among
the sea rack and
shards of memory

stitch my shroud
tie granite to my ankles
bury me
deep in the heart
of the Chesapeake

14
 I, who have found
the end of the rainbow,
can never be unhappy

15
Skipjack One

16
the dawn puddles
around my house;
I rise
to sail the moon
in a paper boat

sailors know
hours spent on the water
are not deducted
from mankind’s
mortal allotment

a spring afternoon,
the mast snags on
a crescent moon;
the mate goes up
and varnishes it

‘boat bum’—
that’s me!
hanging around
the clipper bows
and teak work

side by side
a yacht with

17
gleaming teakwood
and an oysterboat
with mended sails

how small the task

yet how meticulous;
a marlinspike
pierces the laces
and draws them tight

shaking the bats

out of the mainsail
a cloud of night
made homeless
by my hands

in the midst of all

that blue, the orange flash
of kayak paddles

take the helm!

let the worrying kind
stay on shore!

18
the working skipjack
draws abreast of
the model sailboat race;
I notice the toy skipjack
and cheer her on

a sudden gust
and the toy skipjack
heels hard
and almost goes over;
a moment later
and the real skipjack
heels too

bowling for skipjacks,

God’s sport
for the afternoon

bury the lee rail!

if you’re going sailing
you might as well get wet

at the water's edge

trees rustle in a cool breeze
not yet felt in town;
sloops at anchor turn their heads
to face the gathering storm

19
 a bully breeze!
douse the jib, or
we’re all going swimming!

storm bells
the musical tones
of halyards
ringing in the
freshening breeze

aboard the Martha Lewis,

with a sky half sun and half storm,
we race for flat water

Tornado warning,
we work in haste to batten down
everything on the boat;
we seek shelter
and hope for the best

the wind sings

a threnody in the
harp-strung rigging;
dead mariners
rise in answer

20
 these widowed boats,
the men who loved them
gone to their graves

21
Love

22
 Trust has nothing
to do with it, either
you have the courage
to step off the cliff of love
. . . or you don’t.

close enough to touch,

this moon of mine

his burlap skin

washed by the
diamond waters,
and everywhere,
jellyfish in bloom

if only the leaves

were not so green,
this lover’s heart
might enjoy
a little emptiness

When my boys are here

the autumn nights fly past like
swallows in the dusk.
Autumn nights are long
only by repute.

23
Eventually,
the mountains
will come to the sea,
speck
by
speck
eon
by
eon

like humans,
the blue crab
can mate
only when she
sheds her shell

even though
the waves come and go,
it is better
to love the ocean
than the crumbling mountain

24
Cinnamon mornings
follow silk moons of August.
Styrofoam tea sits
quietly at my elbow,
teasing with remembered taste.

brewing a storm
in this coffee cup,
I forecast
the clouds in your eyes
and rain about to fall

How is it
that the moon
is not torn apart
by these winds
that blow?

autumn afternoon
if only we had
as much to say
as this heron
standing silent

will there be a winter

of white velvet snow
and glittering ice diamonds,
or just the mud of
your cold heart?

25
 once there were so many
grasses swaying in the sea,
beckoning to traders
who never thought
their pleasures would end

I was not lonely

with the snow-capped heron
as my company,
but when my lover returned
the silence was desolate

it is no woman
this moon of men
sailor in
the great sea
of longing

i don’t want
to move heaven
and earth,
just the heart
of a man

26
 snow lakes
iceboats cutting
across the winter
my young heart
cracking

the shattered bones

of old loves
haunt
the sea that
surrenders all

Winter, like old age,

begins with snow and dwindles
to a dreary grey;
the longing for spring is as
strong as the desire for love.

tossing my heart
into the recycling bin,
I hope that
somebody else
can put it to good use

27
 tracing the face
of the man in the moon
my own face
looks back
at me

28
Skipjack Two

29
leaving port,
the container ship's wake
rocks the sailboat
dredging for oysters
in shallow water

slowly the points

change shape as we
glide past,
an autumn bending
around the shore

she talks as she sails

this old wooden boat
of oyster days
and summer bays
and watermen grown old

the iron skeleton

at the water’s edge,
what was it once
when machines had meaning
and men their purpose?

30
 the earth is not forever
islands of the Chesapeake
slip into memory

rags,
tatters,
and remnants,
full of raveled
winds

sometimes
on autumn nights
when I am alone,
I hear the old boats
singing in the mist

low grey hills

of barges loaded with gravel,
softened almost into beauty
by the rising of the mist
on the evening bay

white sea and black shore

reflect a black sea and white moon
and everywhere . . . stars

31
standing on Federal Hill,
the city of Tirnagoth
appears in the moonlight
a moment later

vanishes

viewed through
a scrim of sleet,
even the headlights
have a soft glow

oyster season starts

with new yellow slickers
for the crew;
by the end of the first day,
they're torn and dirty

frozen dawn,
hunching in my collar
I work the boat,
the heron hunches
on a nearby rock

32
 drudger’s breeze:
twenty knots and snow
—the oysterboats
blow out of Dogwood Cove
and into the bay

graveyard of boats
their memory sinks
into the marsh

33
Head of the Bay

34
 In the moment before
I open my eyes,
when I don’t know if
I wake or sleep,
how radiant the dawn!

amid the rocks

of the jetty,
an absence of herons

the car rattles

out of the wintry dale,
and suddenly,
the green sound of
frogs singing

with a groan
like the breaking of a man’s heart,
the chokecherry tree
comes down in a white fury
of lightning and blossoms

35
 seen from above,
the entire vale fills with
sparkling mist;
the farmer who owns that
must be a poet too

the green hand

of an ancient oak
cups the clouds;
it holds a new spring
in its gnarled palm

the waterlily
lifts itself from the mud,
unstained and still pure

the old car struggles

up the hill to a village named
'Twilight'

36
 the bat darts
across the moon
and swallows the night

hollyhocks in bloom—
the dooryard of
an abandoned house

summer sun
so very hot
the blaze-faced foal
stays in the shadow
of his mother

two blue herons

in the stillest waters
of the estuary
the wind ripples
just one

a breath
about to exhale
a clammy heat
on my skin
rain about to fall

37
 when the rain pelts down
fair weather fishermen leave
the old wooden dock;
an old black man dons his hat
and stays a little longer

to the others,
it’s just another seagull,
but I know
all the birds here
and it’s a stranger

ospreys nest
on the derelict trestle;
trains rumble over
the 'new' bridge
rusted now by age

sitting on the buoy,

the hunch-necked heron
turns a semicircle
to stare at us
as we sail slowly past

38
 a new heron
I know he’s
not the old heron but
people ask me
“how can you tell?”

the stone gristmill

broad on the starboard bow,
stories
falling into the bay
from its motionless wheel

an abandoned farmhouse
stone eyes gaping
slack-mouthed door
where only flies buzz
in and out

the dowager houses

stand primly in their ragged porches
looking embarrassed
as ladies do
in such circumstances

39
in the windows
of the abandoned depot,
spiderweb art

boarded up
but not blank
it waits
—as we all wait—
for the return of the trains

alone at
the county fair
I ride
a purple pony
going nowhere

Musing over the view,

I wish there was one
who would share it.
A single dandelion
clings to the precipice.

40
 morning fog
even the junkyard wrecks
look good

tempted
this Monday morning
to take
the mist-filled lane
away from town

the skyline’s
not much to look at,
just a green line
drawn along the bottom
of the clouds

the slattern houses sag

on a mean street in a small town,
floral sheets for curtains
cinder blocks for steps
and the fetid smell of despair

41
 still here today
the seedpods blown under
last week’s door

the hillcrest road

climbs straight into
the golden moon

October . . .
the gallows oak
on a windy night

dead doe
on the side of
the highway,
her fawn
shivering beside her

North East
a town so small
it doesn't have a proper name

42
 the house holds
yesterday’s heat
in store against
the thief
called Autumn

sleepless
early in a November morning
before the sun,
before the birds,
before the grace of dawn

an easy winter, full of fat sparrows

a female cardinal,
green as the pine bough,
her red beak
the only sign
of coming spring

43
Threnody

44
So many moons
I have seen,
in this, my life,
but no two are the same . . .
have I changed?

my reflection
in the elevator doors—
as gaunt as I feel

only seventeen,
she wants to join the navy . . .
I play with
disposable chopsticks
and pretend enthusiasm

be careful
what you write
even in your journal,
hearts are waiting
for their bruises

45
 sharp and blue,
this night without a moon

a dozen contrails
stretch across the sky,
all pointing
to the west,
beyond my dreams

bindweed clambers
around the swingset
with no swings

this is not to say

I have never felt despair;
I too have looked into deep wells,
and finding no stars,
cursed the night

46
 if snails
could sing,
would it
make the world
happy?

answer me,
my friend,
before this night
devours
my very soul

maple seeds twirl down

at this desperate place
called home

when I was a child,

cicadas sang the summer
that would never end

47
high tides threaten
to overwhelm the dock:
my daughter tells me
about the man
who hits her

in a garden gone to weeds

is the temple of my heart

the first cold night

of August,
and the shirring of
crickets mourning
summer

emerald
the grass in
the last long rain
before autumn
claims it all

48
 give me an old dog
(his puppy years worn out)
content to lay his muzzle
on my knee while
I sit beside the fire

in my dreams,
a lean, low-hulled corsair
glides up the bay
—and wrecks on rocks
of memory

the blueness of the sky

shines right through the
thin, pale moon

i didn’t want
to remember, but
i can’t unremember
tonight
or i would forget

49
green midnight
and the scent
coming off the pines
autumn creeping in
with the crickets

october eve
the moon licks
the rim of the world

my daughter
searches for an apartment
she can afford
where nobody
has been shot

potato soup
a little too thin,
autumn creeps
silently among
the pine trees

50
the sweep of
the revolving door
brushes souls
in and out
spinning into nothingness

this watch has

worn out another wristband
time spinning
will Earth too wear out
its human bond?

if I wanted
to turn the world
upside down,
I’d be
a possum

there are
no dreams tonight
only memories
staring into the
persimmon darkness

51
 orange needles
even pine trees
come at last
to the autumn
of their lives

winter watermelon,
and borrowed dreams
of summer

snow is falling from

the shattered heavens tonight—
lightning in winter

the whirling snowfall

batters my weary heart with
insistent beauty

52
on a night like this
not even the owls have
anything to say

53
 Biography

M. Kei (pronounced “m’kay”) is the pen name of a poet who lives in Cecil County on Maryland’s
Eastern Shore. Divorced, he is the parent of two college age students. He currently makes a living as a
customer service manager at Wal-mart.
Kei formerly served as a member of the Board of Directors of the Havre de Grace Maritime
Museum while the Museum during its attempt to raise two million dollars to complete the building and
exhibits.
For fun, Kei serves as a volunteer crewman and storyteacher aboard the Skipjack Martha Lewis.
He learned to sail on board a skipjack, and has only sailed wooden boats. He has some additional
experience with both tall ships and small wooden baycraft, and his insane dream is to become a rich and
famous poet so that he can afford to restore a log sailing canoe, or other traditional bayboat.
If that doesn’t keep him busy enough, he also writes and publishes poetry, mostly tanka. He has
had over 1500 poems accepted for publication and has won awards for his poetry. He is the editor of the
critically acclaimed anthology Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart and the editor-in-chief
of Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka.
Kei also edited the Chesapeake Bay Saijiki (Haiku Almanac) online, manages the Kyoka Mad
Poems e-list, and co-manages the Tanka Roundtable. He is the founder and editor of Atlas Poetica : A
Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka. Both Take Five and Atlas Poetica were on the
Montserrat Review's list of Recommended Reading for Fall 2009.
He is a researcher of tanka in English and is the author of ‘The Bibliography of Tanka in English’
and various articles in the field.

54
 Notes and Credits

Chesapeake Country
1 Cecil and Harford Counties, Maryland, also known as the ‘Head of the Bay.’ Sketchbook, 1:3, Dec 2007.
2 View from the Student Lounge, Cecil Community College, North East, MD. Sketchbook, 1:2, Oct 2007.
3 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD.
4 Turkey Point, Cecil County, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.
5 Susquehanna River, off Havre de Grace, MD.
6 Chesapeake Bay.
7 Cecil County, MD.
8 North East, MD. Haiku du Jour, 18 Jul 2006.
9 Havre de Grace Maritime Museum, Havre de Grace, MD.
10 North America.
11 Chestertown, MD. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
12 Elkton and Falling Branch, MD.
13 Brandywine River, Chadd’s Ford, PA. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
14 Aboard the Skipjack Martha Lewis, off Spesutia Island. Haiku Blossoms: Getting Acquainted with
Nature Poetry (India), 9-10 Dec 2006.
15 Off Perry Point, MD. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
16 Aboard the SV Kalmar Nyckel, Christianna River, Wilmington, DE.
17 A field near Middletown, DE.
18 Aboard the Skipjack Martha Lewis, off Havre de Grace, MD.
19 Off Havre de Grace, MD.
20 Ibid.
21 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society (UK), 2007.
22 Chesapeake Bay.
23 Ibid.
24 Ibid. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
25 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. I really did find the end of the rainbow, or more correctly, it found
me. I was eating dinner by myself between cruises on the Skipjack Martha Lewis and it dropped
right down into the water in front of me about a hundred feet away. It stained the water with its
colors, and as I watched, it spent about half an hour slowly swinging away until it dissipated on the
Cecil shore. God himself has told me I belong here and need to keep doing what I am doing.

Skipjack: traditional wooden sailboat used to dredge for oysters on the Chesapeake Bay. Technically,
‘two-sailed bateaux,’ they can be recognized by the immense sails needed to power the dredges.
The Skipjack Martha Lewis is the last vessel in North America to fish commercially under sail, but
she can’t make a living at it, and is now operated by the nonprofit Chesapeake Heritage Foundation.

Skipjack One
1 Perryville, MD. ‘Editor’s Choice,’ Nisqually Delta Review, 3:1, Winter/Spring, 2007.
2 Chesapeake Bay.
3 Skipjack Martha Lewis, City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. Kokako #5, (NZ), Sept 2006.
4 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD.
5 Ibid. Kokako #6, (NZ), Apr 2006.
6 I leathered the oars for a wooden skiff at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum, St. Michael’s, MD,
Easter of 2006.
7 Skipjack Martha Lewis, City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. Actually, it was Capt. Greg that shook them
out—they were starting to roost in the mains’l. Ribbons, 2:4, Winter, 2006.
8 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD.
9 At the helm of the Skipjack Rebecca T. Ruark, oldest of the surviving skipjacks, under the auspices of
the legendary Capt. Wade, Tilghman Island, MD. We got our propellor fouled in a line of eel pots
and were forty-five minutes late getting back to shore, but it wasn’t my fault!
10 Remote controlled toyboat race, off Concord Point Lighthouse, viewed from the deck of the Skipjack
Martha Lewis, Havre de Grace, MD.

55
1 Ibid. When we saw the toy boats heel, we knew what was coming and braced ourselves. Martha buried
her lee rail. Fun!
12 Ibid.
13 Ibid.
14 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. Appeared as part of ‘Skipjack Sequence,’ Lynx, XXI:3, Oct 2006.
15 Bulle Rock sends a strong local breeze over the channel approaching Havre de Grace, even on calm
days.
16 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD.
17 On one of my first sails with the Martha Lewis, we ran out from under a squall. Hail stung my neck and
I realized why sailors wear beards and promptly grew one. ‘Winter,’ Chesapeake Bay Saijiki, 2006.
18 No tornado came our way, but the wind drove the tide up the bay and the unusually high tide broke a
piling at our dock.
19 Transiting the Skipjack Martha Lewis from Havre de Grace to Sparrow’s Point, MD, for the start of
oyster season. Kokako #6, (NZ), Apr 2006.
20 Less than two dozen skipjacks remain of a fleet that once numbered over a thousand.

Love

1 Turkey Point, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.

2 Rt. 40, Perryville, MD.
3 In dry years, salt water inundates the bay and jellyfish flock as far north as Tilghman’s Island.
4 Winner, Tanka Splendor Award, 2006. Ribbons, 2:4, Winter, 2006.
5 For two friends of mine. Simply Haiku, 4:2, Summer, 2006.
6 ‘Editor’s Choice,’ Nisqually Delta Review, 2:2, Summer/Fall, 2006.
7 Blue crabs, Callinectes sapidus Rathbun, are the official crustacean of the State of Maryland. The name
means ‘beautiful swimmers.’ Kokako #6, (NZ), Apr 2006.
8 Loss of wetlands and silting of the rivers and streams destroys the natural protections the Bay affords.
We were hit moderately hard by Hurricane Isabel, so a hit by something the size of Katrina (not
impossible), would be devastating. Modern English Tanka, 1:2, Winter, 2006.
9 One of many poems I wrote while recovering from aphasia caused by narcolepsy. MyTown Outsiders,
May 2006.
10 I don’t currently have a lover, but I can dream, can’t I?
11 You can’t expect an amusing or clever remark in every single note.
12 The herons of Havre de Grace are often seen, but rarely heard. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007
13 Somehow, I don’t seem to be very good at retaining lovers.
14 This is not a love poem. It’s about the loss of sea grasses on the Susquehanna Flats and the negative
consequences for water quality and waterfowl. ‘Editor’s Choice,’ Nisqually Delta Review, 2:2,
Summer/Fall, 2006.
15 A., who disappeared without notice and returned the same way, but didn’t stay long. Did I mention I
have trouble retaining lovers? Simply Haiku, 4:2, Summer, 2006.
16 I have always regarded the moon as male and the sun as female. The female is the steadier of the
two, and it is the male that wanders, appearing and disappearing at will. Such is my experience.
Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007
17 Ki no Tsurayuki, editor-in-chief of the Kokinshu, the tanka anthology that made the mold for the next
thousand years, said that poetry had the power to move the Heavens and Earth. My ambitions are
considerably smaller.
18 “Snow lakes” was originally a typo for “snowflakes,” but when I saw it, I immediately flashed back to
my youth, the iceboats of Michigan, and my first broken heart. Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of
the Human Heart, 2006.
19 Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007
20 Spring, at least, will always return, which cannot be said with any certainty about lovers. Sketchbook,
1:2, Nov 2006.
21 You’d think somebody would want it. It doesn’t seem to be doing me much good.
22 Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.

Skipjack Two

56
1 Aboard the Skipjack Martha Lewis at Seven Foot Knoll, off the Port of Baltimore.
2 Martha Lewis in transit from Havre de Grace to Sparrow’s Point, MD, at the start of oyster season.
3 Ibid. Martha had quite a lot to say on that trip. Her rigging was singing and her shrouds were banging
and her gaff jaws were grinding. It reminds a man that he is a worm clinging to a plank of wood in
the middle of God’s vastness. Anglo Japanese Tanka Society (UK), May 2007.
4 Sparrow’s Point, MD. Anglo Japanese Tanka Society, (UK) May 2007.
5 Several islands of the Bay have eroded away into nothingness during living memory. Several others are
heading that way.
6 Most people reading this think it’s about a homeless person. It’s not. It’s about the Skipjack Martha
Lewis, who is in dire need of a new mains’l. It costs thousands of dollars to have a custom sail that
big made and there aren’t very many sailmakers left who can do it. Modern English Tanka, 1:1,
Autumn, 2006.
7 If you keep quiet and empty your mind, you will be able to hear them too.
8 Off Perry Point, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006. Specially requested for Landfall: Poetry
of Place in Modern English Tanka.
9 The Chesapeake Bay at night, and in the middle of it, one lone skipjack, moths fluttering around her
steaming light.
10 Tirnagoth is the Celtic Paradise. It can be reached by climbing the tallest hill, then climbing a ladder of
moonbeams up to the full moon. Federal Hill, Baltimore.
11 Everything is beautiful, if you believe in beauty.
12 Oyster-dredging is some of the hardest work there is, done in the coldest, dampest weather. Seven
Foot Knoll, off the Port of Baltimore.
13 Late autumn, Havre de Grace, MD.
14 Watermen ‘drudge arsters’ all winter without regard for the weather.
15 And sometimes they don’t come home. ‘Non-Seasonal Topics,’ Chesapeake Bay Saijiki, 2006.

Head of the Bay

1 Perryville, MD.
2 Havre de Grace, MD. When the herons aren’t there, I miss them.
3 Pylesville, Harford County, MD.
4 I wrote this poem while driving through a squall. Fifteen minutes later, I came out from under the eaves
of the storm and discovered a great blooming chokecherry tree shattered by lightning. I figure the
tree got struck right about the time I was composing the poem. My daughter says, “Papa. Don’t write
any poems about people dying, it might come true!” Rt. 1, Harford County, MD. Winner, Tanka
Splendor Contest, 2006. Ribbons, 2:4, Winter, 2006.
5 Pylesville, MD.
6 Jarretsville, Harford County, MD.
7 Rt. 40, near Bush River, Harford County, MD.
8 Okay, so it’s really named, “Trappe’s Church.” I go through there almost every week about twilight to
pick up my son for visitation, so “Twilight” it is.
9 As seen from the deck of the Skipjack Martha Lewis.
10 Rt. 7, near Belcamp, Harford County, MD. Hollyhocks, irises, and violets are my favorite flowers.
‘Summer’, Chesapeake Bay Saijiki, 2006.
11 Rt. 136, near Twilight, Harford County, MD.
12 The cover of this book.
13 Maryland’s heat turns clammy before it rains. You’ve been sweltering in 100+ heat and as the humidity
nears 100%, the temperature suddenly drops, chilling the sweat on your skin. Then the rain starts.
Anglo Japanese Tanka Society (UK), May 2007.
14 City Marina, Havre de Grace, MD. Simply Haiku, 4:2, Summer, 2006.
15 If you pay attention to the world around yourself, you notice these things.
16 Old and ‘new’ train bridges over the Susquehanna River at the Head of the Bay.
17 His name is ‘Henry,’ and he keeps an eye on all that Martha does.
18 Because he didn’t look like them.
19 The old stone gristmill on Perry Point. Head of the Bay, MD. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
20 Cecil County, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.

57
21 Port Deposit, Cecil County, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.
22 Port Deposit, Cecil County, MD.
23 Elkton Railroad Station, not to be confused with Elkton Station, a building at Cecil Community College.
Elkton, MD.
24 Fair Hill, MD.
25 Carpenter’s Point, Perryville, MD. Modern English Tanka, 1:2, Winter, 2006.
26 Rt. 40, Cecil County, MD.
27 Rt. 7, Elkton, MD.
28 Elkton, MD. Red Lights, 3:1, Jan 2007.
29 Hollingsworth Manor, Elkton, MD. I used to live there. Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006
30 Elkton Station, Elkton, MD.
31 The drive home along Rt. 40, Cecil County, MD.
32 It’s actually the “Bicentennial Oak,” but not on a windy October night. Big Elk Mall, Elkton, MD.
33 Rt. 40, Perryville, MD.
34 Yes, it’s name really is “North East.” That’s all there is. It’s not a very big town, so it doesn’t need a
very big name. A variant previously published as part of ‘Cecil County, Maryland,’ Nota Bene, 2006.
35 Perryville, MD.
36 Ibid.
37 Ibid. Being a poor man, fat sparrows make me happy because they mean a mild winter.
38 Ibid.

Threnody

1 Ibid. Nisqually Delta Review, 3:1, Winter/Spring, 2007.

2 Elkton Station, Elkton, MD.
3 My daughter decided to become a teacher instead. Nisqually Delta Review, 3:1, Winter/Spring, 2007.
4 Anglo Japanese Tanka Society, (UK), Mar 2007.
5 Perryville, MD.
6 North of Jarretsville, Harford County, MD. Gusts #4, Fall/Winter, 2006.
7 Elkton, MD. Another place I used to live. ‘Summer,’ Chesapeake Bay Saijiki, 2006.
8 Cecil County, MD.
9 I think it would. I know it would make me happy.
10 Sometimes a friend is the only thing standing between a poet and oblivion.
11 Elkton, MD.
12 During the visit of the seventeen year periodical cicada. Sketchbook, 1:3, Dec 2006.
13 I put a stop to that. Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart, 2006.
14 Elkton, MD. Haiku Harvest, 6:1, Spring/Summer, 2006.
15 Perryville, MD.
16 Ibid. Ribbons, 2:4, Winter, 2006.
17 Inspired by Poseidon, mascot of the Havre de Grace Maritime Museum, Havre de Grace, MD.
18 Modern English Tanka, 1:1, Autumn, 2006.
19 Perryville, MD.
20 My abusive father.
21 Perryville, MD.
22 Ibid.
23 She didn’t find it, and moved in with me.
24 Perryville, MD. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
25 Baltimore, MD. Simply Haiku, 5:1, Spring, 2007.
26 Cecil County, MD.
27 In the eyes of a possum, we are all upside down.
28 Perryville, MD.
29 Ibid. Anglo Japanese Tanka Society, (UK), March 2
30 Grocery store, North East, MD.
31 Elkton, MD.
32 Ibid. Haiku Harvest, 6:1, Spring/Summer, 2006.
33 Elkton, MD.

58